


Affection & Affectations

by thelonebamf



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Jane Austen Fusion, M/M, More tags and characters to be added, Not Beta Read, References to Jane Austen, loose grasp of history to make the plot work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2019-11-14
Packaged: 2021-01-30 09:37:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21426100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelonebamf/pseuds/thelonebamf
Summary: Peter is a hardworking young man from a poor family in London, who is unexpectedly taken under the wing of one Tony Stark. Being plunged into the world of Gentlemen is confusing enough, but matters only become more complicated when Peter meets a peculiar but captivating man at one of Mister Stark's parties. Who is Captain Wade Wilson? And what secrets might he be hiding?
Relationships: Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Peter Parker/Wade Wilson
Comments: 15
Kudos: 33
Collections: Isn't it Bromantic?





	Affection & Affectations

Anthony Stark was what many called “a man of a certain age and fortune”, and as he was also a man of a certain level of intelligence (one many might describe as “brilliance”, himself included) he was well aware of how this meant others perceived him. There was not a day that went by without some inquiry or another about when he might settle down and start a family. Rarely did anyone ever ask after the woman he would choose to do so with. After all, there were few people of any gender that the man considered up to his own standards, and fewer still who could put up with his disagreeable temper at all.

He was often found in the company of a Miss Virginia Potts, but if there was any manner of understanding between them, they both remained silent on the subject. 

It was particularly vexing to those close to them, but neither seemed willing to discuss the topic at all.

“You must understand sir,” came the gentle prodding of the Starks’ loyal but longsuffering head of house, “I promised your father I would look after you once he was gone.”

“That sounds like him.” Mister Stark snapped closed the book he had been browsing, shelving it carelessly with the volumes closest to him. “Shuffle the responsibility to someone else, unwilling to dirty his hands with it. Tell me, Jarvis, when did he squeeze this promise from you? On his deathbed? When I turned eighteen? Or was it moments after I was born when he got a good look at his bright bundle of joy and decided fatherhood wasn’t the best use of his time?”

“Sir,” the older man sighed, taking the misshelved book from the wall and slipping it into its rightful place, “If I may speak freely, I have served your family dutifully for many years now. Even if your father wasn’t… adept at displays of affection, I have no doubt of how much he cared for you.” He stepped towards the parlor window, drawing the curtains so the afternoon light could warm the room. “After all, is that not why he left you with this grand estate? Perhaps it is time that you should begin thinking about what it is you will leave to the next generation?”

Mister Stark’’s mouth hung open, and for a moment the threat of a harsh reprimand hung in the air until all at once he snapped it shut, and nodded. 

“You are absolutely right, about this matter at least. It is time to start thinking about the future.” he agreed. “But this house… dusty books, creaking stairs, cobwebbed corners.” He strode to the window, gazing out at the winding paths of the grounds and garden. “Jarvis, prepare a carriage.”

“And where will you be heading this afternoon?”

“To town,” he answered briskly, the answer obvious in his mind. “Whatever the future holds, it isn’t here.”

* * *

The streets of London were narrow, crowded and twisted like the roots of a centuries old oak, and to Peter Parker’s mind, their enigmatic complexity could be just as beautiful. He was a young man of twenty-one, and had spent his entire life in the city, learning every secret it would tell him. He lived in a small apartment with his aunt, just above a printer’s shop. In his younger days, Peter would often sneak down to the empty corners of the shop to marvel at the turning of wheels and fluttering of pages, and enjoy the ample heat of the presses. 

When he was ten, and his aunt and uncle could no longer deny their bleak financial situation, Peter began seeking opportunities to help where he could, performing odd jobs for shops in the neighborhood, making deliveries and passing on messages and missives to the wealthy who had come to their city homes in town for a visit.

Soon he found himself with regular employment from none other than the printer he’d lived above his whole life. Every morning he was given a stack of papers to sell, with instructions to come back for more should he run out. At the end of each week he was paid a shilling which he delivered dutifully to his aunt and uncle. The leftover papers, worthless at day’s end besides as kindling, were his to keep. Peter never set a single page in the hearth until he’d read every word, eager to learn as much as he could.

There was plenty of news of the war and exploits in far off lands, though most reports had to do with trade and investments as they pertained to most of the paper’s readership. And indeed, it was fascinating to read about distant lands, even if he felt that there was more to every story than the few cramped words on each page could tell him. It was much easier to frame the stories about London herself, being intimately acquainted with the city and its people.

This morning, his sharp eye caught sight of Mister Stark, just exiting his carriage at the steps of his city home. A man of fortune and status, he was instantly recognizable to Peter, though he knew he was unlikely to be recognized himself, despite having sold more than a few papers to him over the years.

“Paper, Mister Stark? All the latest since you’ve last been to town? It’s been at least a season to be sure.” 

“I didn’t realize it was common practice for the paperboys in town to keep track of their customer’s comings and goings,” Mister Stark answered, dropping a few coins into the young man’s palm and taking the proffered paper. 

“Not all of them, sir. Only those who are most newsworthy themselves.”

“Flattery.” Mister Stark grinned slightly, pulling softly at the edges of his beard. “Is that something they teach you at the Bugle?”

“No sir,” Peter smiled, tipping his head a few inches lower, “we working boys have to teach it to ourselves.”

Mister Stark paused at that, fingertips trailing up from his chin to the corner of his mouth as he studied the young man before him. He wasn’t much to look at, not polished and coiffed as men of his own social circles tended to be. But even if he was a rough at the edges, the bottoms of his boots slick with mud, and the coat hanging from his shoulders a size or two too large, there was an open earnestness in his eyes that appealed to Stark, and he found himself giving it great consideration.

“What do you know about the string of robberies over the summer?”

“Gem thefts for the most part,” Peter answered automatically. “It’s been the talk of the town. Not unlike the robberies committed by a Mister Walter Hardy some years past.”

“But he was apprehended, sits in a jail cell to this day,” countered Stark.

“True enough, sir, but I think these crimes have the Hardy signature flare.”

“How is that? Hardy had no accomplices, no sons to follow in his footsteps.”

“There is his daughter, sir. Felicia.” Peter peered at Mister Stark, curious to see how the gentleman would react to his suggestion. Though Peter was acquainted with him only by reputation, Anthony Stark was known for being naturally curious and eager for amusement wherever it happened to find him.

“You believe her capable of committing such acts?”

“I believe it would be foolish to discount her abilities on the sole basis of her gender,” came Peter’s reply, even and calm, but with the hint that this suggestion had been met with harsh rebuttal in the past. 

Mister Stark’s lips parted, and for a moment it seemed he too would refute Peter’s ideas, but something in the young man’s eyes had him thinking better of it. “What did you say your name was, lad?”

“Parker, sir. Peter Parker.”

“Walk with me, Mister Parker,” Mister Stark instructed, waving his hand and prompting his servants to continue carrying his bags inside. “I’m interested to hear more of what you have to say on this and other, shall we say… current events.”

Confused, but eager to carry on the conversation, Peter nodded and quickly fell in step aside the other man, and the two of them made their way down the bustling street. 

It appeared that Mister Stark had no real destination in mind, but it failed to concern Peter, who was always eager to spend time in the city, taking in the sights and sounds. This time, however, he was able to play the part of a guide for Mister Stark, who had visited the city countless times, but never with the eyes of someone who lived and breathed the city as Peter did. Though Stark was known for his tendency to talk too quickly and at too great a volume for most to tolerate for any length of time, he allowed Peter to take the lead in the conversation, pointing out various sights and landmarks in the city, although they were of a different sort than the diversions he usually sought out.

“And what of this street, Peter?” Mister Stark inquired, pointing down a cramped and narrow street. “What secret treasures are to be found here, beneath the cobblestones?”

“No treasure sir.”

“Ah, well.”

“Unless of course you consider information to be something of value.” There was a glint in Peter’s eye, and a catch of a smile at the corner of his mouth that told Mister Stark he himself prized it very highly.

“That depends on the information itself, and its accuracy.”

“To be sure,” Peter agreed. He motioned towards a door a few buildings down, the plaque on its stones small and tarnished, but still proud in its own way. “I deliver papers here every day.”

“Nelson and Murdock,” Mister Stark read aloud. “Barristers?” He had no idea why Peter would think they would be of interest to him.

Peter nodded, his smile growing. “Yes sir, they… hear things.”

“As do all men of the law,” Mister Stark shrugged, clearly unimpressed.

“To be sure,” Peter agreed. “But not like they do. Should you have the time, it may be worth getting acquainted.” 

“Fair enough,” Mister Stark relented. “It would be seen that talent can be found in the most unlikely of places.”

“Exactly so.”

The afternoon sun soon sank below the crest of the city, leaving only the light of the streetlamps to guide the two men back to Stark’s residence. As they approached the front steps, Mister Stark bid the young man good night, thanked him for the tour of his city, and Peter thought that would be the end of it. He fell into his bed utterly exhausted, never expecting to hear of Anthony Stark again, (saving of course for his inevitable mention in the society pages when his engagement to Miss Potts became official, since everyone knew it was just a matter of time). 

As he came into the kitchen the next morning, he was unsurprised to see his Aunt May busy at work, a heap of his favorite wheatcakes already plated at her side. She all but beamed at him as the kettle began to whistle, hurrying him to take a seat at the kitchen table where his Uncle waited.

“It seems you made quite an impression, my boy,” his uncle smiled, handing over a small leaf of paper, a neat but hasty message scrawled across it. “I always knew you were going places.”

“What’s this?” Peter took the paper in hand, reading it over several times before looking back to his aunt and uncle, just as breakfast was served. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“Mister Stark sent that over this morning,” his aunt explained, pouring tea for her nephew. “Apparently he was quite taken with you. Said you were a bright young man with a real future, and hoped you would consider allowing him to take you under his wing. An apprentice of sorts.”

“And what is it exactly I am meant to learn from someone like Anthony Stark?” Peter’s eyes widened. The idea had its appeal, but he wasn’t sure he understood where he fit into the world of gentlemen.

“Finance? Trade?” Ben suggested. “I’ve heard he has a penchant for the sciences as well. Honestly, my boy, there’s no limit to what you could pick up with Mister Stark as your benefactor.”

“Perhaps,” Peter mused, still unsure. “But I think it’s a decision that can wait until after breakfast.”

“Oh course, Peter.” May placed a short kiss in his hair. “And whatever you might decide, we’re ever so proud of you. You are a very special young man. We’re just glad someone else has finally noticed.”

* * *

Mister Stark’s offer turned out to be genuine, and within the week Peter was at his home in the city. Hardly a waking moment passed that he was not at the gentleman’s side, though what it was he was meant to be learning remained a mystery to him. 

“You are certainly one of the most hardworking and clever young men I’ve ever met,” Mister Stark assured him, “but you’ll soon come to realize that those two qualities alone are not enough to secure success in today’s society. There is much you need to learn from people of so called “good breeding” that will help to make your path easier.” He sighed heavily. “I admit I’ve never liked the phrase. “Breeding,” as though the men and women of England are nothing more than cattle stock bring paired off of a farmer’s ledger.”

“But enough of dull talk. I think in your days here you have managed to pick up more than you realize. It might be time for a little… experimentation.”

“I’m not sure I understand your meaning, sir,” Peter worried aloud. “Do you mean to give me some kind of test?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Mister Stark responded, a sly grin crossing his face. “It’s the sort of thing that certainly tests my fortitude. And my patience. But I think you should manage just fine.”

Peter had no idea what to expect, but it certainly was not for a veritable caravan of cooks, decorators and tailors to storm through the house until not a single room remained that wasn’t full of food, and glittering baubles. Even more of a surprise was the change of clothes waiting for him in the room he’d been given. Fine silk and linen in deep shades of crimson and cobalt, trimmed with charcoal threads that gleamed a faint silver in the candlelight. It was more ostentatious than anything Peter would have ever worn out in the city, but Mister Stark assured him it was exactly what he needed for the night ahead.

“They say that clothes make the man,” he assured Peter, “but there’s also something to be said for accessorization.” He handed over a slim box, but its contents only confused the boy further.

“A mask?” Indeed, the thing was painted in the same bright hues as the clothing he’d been given, although it was embellished further with a fine filigree that resembled nothing so much as a spider’s web. 

“You’ll need it for tonight. You know, everyone claims to believe that masquerades are vulgar, and that dignified persons would never dream of attending one, but I promise you these halls will be filled this evening. That’s a lesson in itself, I think.”

Peter spent the next few hours helping out in the house where he could, his hands never resting idle until it was time for him to get dressed. He stood before the mirror, studying his reflection for a time, not feeling quite himself. It wasn’t an unpleasant sensation so much as it was a strange one, and as he slipped the mask on his face he felt his recognizable self melt that much further away. The strange masked man that looked back at him was unrecognizable to himself, and would certainly be unknown to any of the guests at Mister Stark’s party. What might such a man say or do? There was only one way to find out.

Music filled every room of the Stark mansion, lively tunes meant to invigorate the spirit and tempt even the most sullen of guests to step onto the dance floor. Peter was sure that there were many familiar people in the crowd (even if some of them were only known from their mentions in the newspapers) but with masks on every face, it was impossible to know who was who. This provided its own opportunities, as it meant Peter was able to linger at the corners of any conversation as though he belonged there, giving him a rare look into the unguarded opinions of others. 

Though Mister Stark was never shy about his opinions of most members of high society, he had no trouble at all blending in with them at social functions. In fact, he was practically charming. But Peter found his brand of artificial wit and courtesy tiring to listen to and impossible to endure for any length of time. Instead he wove his way through the crowds, almost unnoticed as he eavesdropped onto whatever topics the wealthy saw fit to discuss at such a gathering.

“A masquerade, can you believe it? So garish.”

“One would think Mr. Stark has no regard at all for propriety.”

“Indeed. It’s clear that he cares little for the station and reputation of his guests. Or perhaps he means to make a joke of us all by forcing us to don these ridiculous masks.”

“There are members of royalty present here tonight. Members of the court. Ambassadors!”

“Including a representative from France if you can believe it. I can’t imagine what Stark was thinking.”

“I imagine,” came a deep booming voice from the other side of the gathered crowd, just out of Peter’s line of sight, “he thought his guests would enjoy gossiping about the French dignitary too much for him to deprive them of the chance.” 

“I can’t imagine what you mean!” Even beneath the shield of her mask, Peter could see the woman’s cheeks were burning a furious shade of crimson.

“I’ve been watching you.” The man strode forward and Peter could finally take in his towering form. He was dressed head to toe in deep red and ebony, with a mask to match, the dark circles around his eyes giving him the garish appearance of a blood soaked skull. “You had no trouble at all helping yourself to the table of amuse and  pâtisseries. You seemed quite partial to the macarons.”

The woman looked at her friends for help, but they all seemed quite distracted by the wallpaper and sconces at the moment. “And what of it?” Am I not allowed a small number of indulgences at such a ball?”

“Of course you are,  _ madame _ , you are a woman of fine class and standing” The man smiled, and even obscured as it was beneath the edge of his mask, Peter found it sly and broad. “And I am but a poor soldier. Which is why it surprises me that you should curse the French with your lips when you welcome them so easily on your tongue.” 

Despite his best efforts to remain unnoticed, Peter failed to contain a soft laugh from bubbling out, which only heightened the embarrassment of the woman and her friends. Had their identities not been concealed, they might have found Stark himself to complain, but deciding that the night’s anonymity was in their favor instead chose to storm out in a huff in the hopes they could escape with their reputations unscathed.

Entertainment over, the small crowd began to dissipate until there was no one left behind but Peter and the stranger, still wearing his cheshire grin. 

“You probably shouldn’t have spoken to her that way,” Peter chided. “She seems like the kind of woman who enjoys making life difficult for others at every turn.”

“Perhaps,” the stranger answered, “but I think her fear of further embarrassment will prove strong enough to keep her from admitting anything out of the ordinary happened here tonight. And even if it wasn’t, I can’t imagine she could make my life more difficult than it is already.” His smile broadened despite the odd darkness of his words as he turned to Peter directly. “But you, on the other hand, look like you might be worth quite a great deal of trouble. I don’t think I’ve seen your face here before.”

“You haven’t even seen my face now,” Peter corrected. 

“That’s true enough,” the man agreed. “But you seem like a sensible sort of fellow who would rather not be judged by his appearance in the first place.”

Peter couldn’t argue with that, so he afforded the man a slight hum and nod of the head. “To be honest, it isn’t many people who have afforded me a first glance, let alone a thought. I’m somewhat out of my element at an event like this, where everyone seems to be competing for attention.” A wry smile peeked out from the edge of his mask.

“Not all of us need to compete. We find the spotlight tends to find us no matter how much we try to avoid it.”

“Is this your idea of avoidance? Showing up to a grand masquerade, in crimson silks and a terrifying mask?” It was bold of Peter to ask such a question, but he found his curiosity piqued, and the stranger seemed to take no issue in answering honestly. Instead he only laughed softly to himself, a sound the young man could barely hear above the noise of the party.

“I assure you, this mask only serves to hide a far greater horror from the gathered eyes of high society.” 

“Ah,” Peter’s smile broadened, sure that he had finally gained the upper hand. “But I am a man of no title or property at all. Surely then I might have the pleasure of knowing who you are. After all, I hardly fit in with those here tonight, with their good names and good families.”

“I suppose you don’t,” the stranger mused. “You seem like the sort who has to make do with simply being a good person.”

The frankness of the comment was enough to take Peter aback, and he found himself at a loss for words, instead struggling to make sense of it all. Who was this masked man, that he might make such judgements, and express them so plainly?

“But you’re right. You do deserve a name at least.” He leaned down to Peter’s level, whispered words brushing lightly against the errant locks of chestnut hair. “My name is Wade. And I do hope to hear you call on me soon.” Wade pulled back, cryptic smile barely visible as he tipped his hat low. “And with that, I think I must leave you tonight. Until we meet again, Mister Parker.”

It seemed impossible that a man with such a stature could vanish into the night, but Peter had scarcely brought his thoughts to right before Wade had melted into the crowd, and wasn’t to be seen again. 

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of sounds and colors, but Peter could hardly be bothered to pay attention to any of the frivolity, instead clinging to the far wall of the parlor, mulling over the curious interaction. It wasn’t until much later, as he helped Jarvis with the endless tasks of cleaning up after the party that he gained any insight into the strange man from the night before.

“You must mean Captain Wilson. I wondered if he would show at all. He’s not usually one for such gatherings, but I suppose he couldn’t resist, given that…” He stopped himself abruptly, glancing at Peter who had the good sense to pretend to be preoccupied with folding a tablecloth. “Well, I imagine Mr. Starks invitation was too tempting to resist.”

“You said he was a Captain?” Curiosity finally got the better of Peter. “He didn’t seem like a soldier. His speech and bearing were far more…” Words failed him.

“Captain Wilson does have a bit of a reputation for being a… if you’ll forgive the turn of phrase, ‘loose cannon’. Unpredictable even at the best of times. When he does turn up, most people tend to give him a wide berth.” He studied Peter for a moment before speaking again. “It might be prudent to remain… cautious, while interacting with the Captain.”

“Yes…”Peter agreed, events of the night playing over in his head again. 

“I’ll have to keep an eye on him.”

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting untouched and unloved in my google docs for almost a year because I didn't think anyone wanted to read it. Should out to my peeps over at Isn't it Bromantic who gave me the encouragement I needed to share this story.


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